Don't Let Me
by Chucker
Summary: Started off as a oneshot. Decided one shot was not enough. Is now a collection. Maybe. Basically one big clump of angsty crap from various parts in the boys' life. Keep in mind, while they may have been some of the smartest kids on earth, they're still kids. Goings on in these stories do not necessarily represent my views of them in entirety, but rather in various maturities.
1. 1 Don't Let Me

Don't Let Me

I don't know why I still remember it. Whatever it was that caused that one precious, wonderful night to stick in my mind, like a white piece of tape on black construction paper, I could never figure out. Perhaps it was that shockingly golden colour lighting the horizon as the clouds, which seemed to never break, were parted through by the setting sun. Perhaps it was all of the trouble you and I got into after we were found out there, and how you spent the rest of the night complaining about the extra chores we were now assigned.

Or perhaps...perhaps, the reason is because that night, I finally realized that…I didn't want to die. Not on my own.

I've never really had people in my life. For the most part it's just me, and the voices inside my head. Being an orphan, and being raised at Wammy's entered me into what was one of the most stressful and competitive existences a child could lead. For an orphanage, which is supposed to provide a comfortable place for unlucky children to live out their early years, Wammy's was no friendly atmosphere. And in no way did I try to improve my solemn childhood.

I had long forgotten how to trust people. In every smiling, childish face that threw me a ball or asked me to play with them, I saw only another enemy, another competitor I needed to beat. Even at an early age, my entire life was focused around my success, and it's being greater than the success of others. I guess that's my way of trying to make up for the lack of attention I've received; the attention and praise I craved so desperately but never got enough of.

Eventually, I just stopped accepting attention when it was offered. Isolating yourself from everyone around you and thinking negatively about everything isn't exactly an ideal way to spend your childhood, but it's certainly what I did.

So when you came into my life, walked into my little empty dormroom, with an undersized suitcase and an oversized black and white striped shirt; and you gave me all the attention I could ever possibly want; and I did the same for you; I didn't know what to think. You were clutching on tightly to a chocolate bar wrapped in foil, but as soon as Roger left the room, so that you and I could "get acquainted", you shoved it into my hands, loudly declaring your disgust for the thing. Not exactly a conventional way of gift giving, but I took it as such despite that. If this was your way of saying "let's be friends", then I understood it perfectly.

And with this newly established "friendship", while it admittedly wasn't much of a friendship as neither you or I really knew what that meant, my years got a little less lonely.

Fast forward a few years, to the night before I left the wretched place. It was about 7:14 PM, and I was lounging on the creaky piece of wood I called my bed, staring at my dresser and wondering if I could fit all of my clothes into one suitcase, when you burst in the door. Face red, holding onto a black and white checkered ball with one hand and trying to wipe sweat from your brow with the other, you had just come back from the weekly Wammy's Friday after dinner football match. Though you were never very good at sports, you always participated in the games, out of a sense of obligation to interact with the other children. I'd never gotten why you felt you needed to involve yourself with them, but still you did, willingly. Needless to say, you had a few more friends there than I.

You dropped the ball onto the floor in some random spot, letting it roll to a corner of the room where it would be forgotten and gather dust. Letting out a sigh and flashing me a smile, you grabbed for the shiny plastic Nintento DS sitting on your bedside table, and went to flop down on the couch. Of course, I didn't let you get that far.

There was a bottle of gin sitting under my bed, which I had smuggled into the orphanage a few months ago. I had planned on saving it for a special occasion, but today seemed special enough. Not to mention that there wouldn't be any more special occasions for a long time. So I grabbed the gin, and I grabbed you, and we climbed up to the rooftop. We had never been up here before, as Wammy's rules didn't allow it (not as though we followed those rules anyways), but we had always wanted to, so I thought spending some time up there would be a good way to say goodbye to the place. You didn't see the significance in it, so I didn't tell you.

We took a seat on the south end of the roof, the part that looked out over the Wammy's courtyard. Now, if this were some cheesy romance movie, I would tell you that we used to come up here all the time as kids, and watch the other orphans run around on the grass below our feet.

However, since my life is about as far from that as possible, I have no problem with telling you that, quite frankly, the view of the courtyard looked like shit. The staff clearly had better things to do than keep up the state of the lawn, and the grass had been stomped down and pulled out in fistfuls by the sticky fingers of little kids who played out here. The trees were all gnarled, with branches sticking out all over the place, and the supposedly decorative pond in the middle of it all was overgrown with reeds.

"Well, this is ugly." I had said to you as I took the blue glass bottle in my hands and started twisting off the cap. With a delicate "pop", the metal seal loosened, and I tore the lid off, immediately lifting the rim to my lips. Truth be told, I had never drank any alcohol before, but I doubted it could be that bad. You pulled a cigarette out of your pocket, and a lighter, one of those drugstore ones patterned with half naked women, and tried to light it. The flame fizzled out about three times before you finally got a steady blaze going, and you started coughing once you put the thing in your mouth, but...well, with all of the harping I do about cigarettes and your health, I've always thought you looked attractive smoking; even back then.

"Yeah. Really brings to life the whole desolate orphanage for maltreated children stereotype." You took another long drag from your cigarette, and casually slung your arm around my shoulders, speaking a little softer. "Can't fucking wait to get out of here."

I felt my face go pale, but I guess you didn't notice it. "Heh, yeah..." I decided this would be a good time to take a nice big gulp from the bottle, instead of just pressing it to my lips, as I had been until now. Not a great idea. I could barely taste the alcohol as it flooded into my mouth and across my tongue, but once I had swallowed it, it was a different story.

A hacking cough emerged from my lungs. "Holy..." Cough. Cough. "What...the hell is this...stuff?"

You, always being the heroic type, started frantically patting me on the back, in a sad attempt to get me to stop coughing. You dropped your cigarette in your panic, and it flew down through the air and onto the ground, where it slowly died out amongst the overly wet grass. "Holy fuck!" you yelled, hitting my back even harder. "Are you okay?"

"OW!" I smacked his hand away. "This gin shit..." I glanced at it, my eye catching on the '40% alcohol' label. "...a little bit strong." I let out a laugh, and one last cough, before grimacing and taking another swig. This swallow went down a little better, though it still tasted awful. I swung the bottle over in your direction, but you looked at it as though I was handing you a bloody knife, and shook your head.

"Yeah, I don't think I want any, man."

"Fine. Suit yourself." I put on a grin, and thrust the bottle out over the side of the building, taking one last drink of it before letting it go. It fell a lot quicker than your cigarette did, and smashed on the pavement below with a loud combination of clinking and crashing.

You peered over the edge of the bricks, eyes growing wide, at the shattered blue glass and puddle of liquor seeping out over the sidewalk. "What the fuck?" Your eyes shifted to me, then back to the ground. "Why'd you do that? There's gonna be a shitstorm when Rodger sees that! You know they run fingerprint checks here..." You leaned back on your hands, closing your eyes and kitting your brows together. "God, Mello. We're gonna be on dish duty for weeks...not to mention the lecture...aagggh, the lecture..."

The sunlight was turning your hair a coppery shade. You looked especially pretty that night. I leaned over to you, breathing in deeply. You smelled like tobacco and grass, but it was a good smell. "Screw Rodger." Holding your face between both of my palms, and looking straight at you, I planted a kiss on your lips. Just a short kiss, nothing more than a little chaste peck, and you didn't even open your eyes. It was all I even got in before I noticed the sunlight.

"Wait. What the hell?"

I backed up, away from you, and peered out over the horizon. "Holy shit! Matt! Look...!" You rubbed at your eyes, directing your view towards where I was pointing.

"What is it...holy crap."

There, in the middle of the sky, in the midst of all the thick clouds overhead, was a small gap. And in that gap was the sun.

Casting out golds and yellows and reds, lighting up the whole lawn, the trampled grass didn't look so bad in this light. I had never seen a sunset in my life. Kind of pitiful, I know, but my room at the orphanage only had a south facing window, and it was constantly cloudy. We were always inside at the time when the sun sets.

You smiled at it, but were nowhere as impressed as I was. "Sunset. Hah, haven't seen one of those in a while." You grabbed another cigarette, this time lighting it with ease. I took no notice.

If you'd looked at me at that exact moment, seen my eyes, I swear you would have seen, swirling around in them, the same colours that filled the sky. I was mesmerized. I'd never seen anything like it, and it was so fucking beautiful that I couldn't take my eyes off of it.

It was a pretty damn good way to spend my last night here. After I would leave...well, who knew. I was aware at the time that it would sure as hell be difficult, as well as dangerous. The world was not a welcoming place for a lone 15 year old with a shitty attitude. It was the first suicide mission in my life, a term I became all too familiar with throughout my years. The first time I really thought to myself: Wammy's was the death of me. I've never wanted to die, I guess I just value some things a little more than my life. But in that moment, as we sat together watching the sun set, I forgot all of that. All of those negative thoughts, all of the fear that comes with dying...for the first time in my life, I told myself that I loved you. And I meant it.

"Matt." I said, leaning into your shoulder and burying my nose in that messy red hair of yours.

"What?"

"…don't let me die alone." I whispered. You were taken aback, just a little bit, but you didn't stop squeezing my hand.

"What are you talking about?" you murmured; and you laughed again.

"When the time comes..." I paused, lifting my hand up to your chest and running my fingers across it. "When the time comes, let's you and me die together, alright?"

You didn't know it at the time, but those words were my goodbye.

And because you didn't know, you still took my face in your hands, and kissed it, over and over, and whispered to me, "of course."


	2. 2 Smoke Screen

'YOU LOSE'

The mass of bright yellow pixels flashes on the television screen as an image of a frightened looking Mario plunging over the side of a cliff fades away in the background. The two dreadful words stand there, blinking in front of my face for a few moments. And then continue to blink. Some sort of cruel glitch, and now the game will not stop reminding me of my failure. Wonderful. A look of annoyance crosses my now scrunched up face. Idiotic thing.

As I lean back into the couch cushions behind me, wondering whether I should try to fix the game or just turn the tv off and reset, I become aware of the presence at my back. It doesn't frighten me, no. Who else can it be but you, the blonde haired temperamental mess I call my roommate? Still, I go to turn around and regard you, if not to simply confirm my suspicions. I don't get so far. As my head begins to twist around backwards, you clamp your hand over my mouth, wrenching my neck back into a forward position. Hot breath is suddenly on my ear. I try to turn and face you, but your hand keeps my head firmly in place. I'm not really in the mood for any of your bullshit attempts at seduction. But what use would resisting do? You'll either get your way or get upset with me. And so the voice from behind me does not cease to taunt.

"Aww, did Matty lose him game?" It's always strange to hear such simple, babyish words come from your mouth. Usually you use such a colorful variety of language. You always have such an arsenal of words seemingly waiting behind your tongue. Of course, so do I, but I that doesn't prevent me from being impressed. I never like it when you reduce the language you use to such childish phrases. But I don't voice any complaints.

Your hand has moved away from my face, down, and is now toying with the fabric around my neck. You continue mumbling in hushed sentences, but I've stopped listening, and focus my gaze on the wall in front of me. You don't really care whether I'm paying attention or not. You'll have your way with me anyways, and then we'll return to the daily routine.

"Does he need some consoling?" My brain picks up a few syllables from the mass of whispers and mumbles floating around. Grammatically incorrect, to say the least. I purse my lips in response. I see no point in answering a rhetorical question. A sudden whoosh of air flies past me, and you're no longer at my back, but on the sofa next to me. At least you've landed gracefully. I'm finally able to look you in the eyes, but I choose not to all the same.

You've tangled your hand in my hair now. You've turned your gaze on me, piercing into the flesh of my own face with your glare. You now remain silent; stone still. You expect me to do something. Keep the ritual going. I guess I'm partially responsible for this too.

I raise my arm and rest it lightly around your bony shoulders, drawing you in a little closer to me. That should satisfy you for now. Any small gesture usually does. I sometimes think I should feel ashamed for contributing so little to these sessions, but neither of us seems to mind.

And surely enough, you are satisfied. This seems to be enough to count as a sign of approval from me, and you suddenly sit up. You angle your entire body towards mine, hold my head in your hands, and press your lips to my face. I let myself be pushed further into the cushions, and rest my hands on your back. Until now, I had not even noticed how tightly I had been clutching the game controller in my hand, and now I let it fall to the sofa next to me, ignoring the words still lighting up the television. My hands run up your legs and find a resting place on your lower back, and you're pulled in and pressed up against me.

It's not that I don't like being with you. That's not the case at all, and I can not even begin to describe how painful it would be for me if you were to think that. I love you. Completely and genuinely love you. There's no questioning that. But even now, as you attempt to pour your love into a kiss, I can't enjoy. You know all of this. It would take an utter imbecile for my discomfort, my lack of satisfaction to go unnoticed. How my muscles tense when you run your hands along the contours of my body. How I remain expressionless when you flash me little flirty smiles or winks. How I'm distracted by the most minor of details, like the slightly off pattern in which our wall clock ticks, when you're busy focusing all of your concentration into being somewhat romantic. You're as far from an imbecile as one could get. So I don't doubt for a second that you don't notice.

But you choose to ignore it, and I'm alright with that. I can see how much you need this, and no matter how much your flirtations and actions mess with my brain and turn me off, I would never put my own minor discomforts in higher importance than your happiness.

The lack of love and physical affection in our early lives has lead to completely different outcomes in you and I. Each equally problematic. All I need in a relationship is the knowledge that I love you, you love me, and that we're there for each other. I don't need any hugs or kisses to remind me of that. In fact, I strive to stay away from such touch. You, on the other hand, crave physical contact with every fiber of your being, like a man in the desert craves water. Every moment of every day, you need to be reminded that I am here for you, that I still care about you; or you start to think that I don't. You bring in this confirmation through the same things I hate. It's the only way to keep you from being consumed by the overwhelming sense of loneliness constantly threatening to take you over.

I doubt it's kissing me and holding me that you crave, but the confirmation and relief you receive from it. This almost makes me despise the whole ritual more. It's simply artificial, selfish rather than compassionate and loving. I go through with these long nights for no one but you, while you rarely restrain yourself and suffer through a night alone for me. It's always been an indisputable fact that I am the one who makes sacrifices in our relationship. It's always been like that, but I see it more and more as we continue to age. I do everything for you, and you do everything for yourself. Nobody does anything for Matt, because Matt doesn't want anything done for him. And so it goes.

If you were a junkie and love was your drug, I would not be the substance itself but simply the pipe you smoke it through.

You've gone all out now, clutching the fabric of my shirt in bundles with sweaty fingers. Your body dips against mine and arches back up again, moving rythmically as your breathing gets deeper. My own hands, not warm like yours but cold and clammy lie nearly limp on your back, muscles only tensed enough to keep them from falling to my sides. Your eyelids are stretched, eyes wide open and staring hungrily into the emptiness that fills my own.

And you grasp the sides of my face again, pulling my head over and turning it, giving your lips room to travel across my jawline and down my neck. I let my head flop onto the couch, releasing my muscles and going limp under you. My eyes dart around the room, looking through the dim light and dusty air for something halfway interesting to rest on. However, all I can make out is the yellow glow from the television screen, vaguely blurry words still blinking back at me. "You Lose". How ironic.

And I don't feel a thing.


End file.
